


Give the Blarney Stone a Kiss

by kashinoha



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Humor, I am incapable of writing a fic without puns, let's get this party snarted, nonhuman!Len, nonhuman!Lisa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody in Central City is too wrapped up with their meta-humans and superheroes and time travel to notice. But eventually, someone does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give the Blarney Stone a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know where this idea came from, but I decided to roll with it. We've seen a bunch of meta!Len stuff, but I also have a weak spot for AUs of characters as supernatural beings. Also, I really just wanted to write Sara being awesome.

 

**Give the Blarney Stone a Kiss  
**

All characters © DC Comics

 

 

There were several ways to be smart. Well, nine, according to an article he’d read by some distinguished psychologist or another. And though they could be, grossly understating, a bit dysfunctional at times, Len supposed they were quite a brainy band of degenerates. Hunter wouldn’t have shown up in his posh little TARDIS if he had believed otherwise.

Firestorm and Palmer came from your typical Tony-Stark-meets-Emmet-Brown line of genius, haphazard hair ablow and eyes so wide you began to wonder how much sleep they actually got (Len swore half their bills were for yerba matés alone). The Hawks had wisdom that only came from a couple thousand years of experiences. Len and Mick had street smarts: heist-planning, design, knowing how people worked. You had to be smart to be bad.

But Sara, she had something different going on upstairs. She always seemed to know things without even trying. Like a Magic 8 Ball that actually worked. It made Mick nervous, and _no one_ made Mick nervous. Sara was the daughter of a cop and a history professor, which certainly lent itself to something, but she’d also been dead and that _did_ things to people.

Sara was dead, and perhaps it was because she was dead that she was the only one to see the little things.

At times, literally.

“Sometimes I see lights around people,” she said, in 1979, feet dangling over the rooftop of a boarded-up deli as she watched the sky burn in a sunset. “Major aura hippie shit, you know? It usually happens when I’m tired or stressed out.” She paused. “It started after the…after the pool.”

Len propped his chin over folded arms and raised an eyebrow at her.

Sara smiled a little and bit her lip. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

Feeling the coolness of the rail under his hands, Len tilted his head and asked her, “Who of us isn’t?”

Sara snorted. “Good point. But you’re interesting, Snart.”

 _Says the one who can see auras,_ Len thought, grinning. Knowing Sara, it was likely she had not told anyone about it. “And why is that?” he asked.

Sara turned around to look at him. “I’ve never seen someone with green light before,” she said.

Len’s eyes narrowed. “Not even the Green Arrow?”

“Nah,” replied Sara, turning back towards the sunset. “He’s actually more of a piss color.” She did not say it with any malice, but rather as a fact, an observation. “I haven’t figured out what they mean or anything.” Her brow furrowed and she added, quietly, “My sister would know.”

Len watched the last of the sunlight sputter over the town before sinking below the skyline. A flock of geese took off overhead, squawking into the burgeoning twilight.

“Are you supposed to? Know?” he asked, after a minute.

Sara shrugged. “Probably not,” she admitted, “but I can’t say I’m not curious.”

 

 

 

“What are you?” Palmer slurred. It was Friday, and on any other universe Len would have spent his Fridays actually having a life. Not drinking the Atom under the table for kicks because they were under strict butterfly-effect orders not to fuck anything up and there was nothing better to do in 1983.

Len watched Palmer struggle with his tiny umbrella straw and smirked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You,” Palmer started, “drank six Wild…Wild Turkeys and you’re not even—“he waved his hand around and made an unflattering sound with his lips that Len took to mean shit-faced drunk. Pretty much like Palmer now.

He grimaced. Palmer was really not his type of drinking crowd. Len would usually be stealing from guys like Palmer. The guy was a class-A dick, but he was a dick in an endearing sort of way. It was impossible to truly hate his stupid optimism—especially since under all the million-dollar grins and cringe-worthy puns the guy really did have good intentions.

“You’re seeing things, Palmer,” Len said, comfortably. He nodded to the six empty glasses. “There are only three here.”

Narrowing his eyes blearily, Palmer tried for a smile and asked, “Wanna bet?”

“Flip you a coin,” offered Len, pulling out a gold piece from his pocket. Palmer’s bloodshot eyes widened.

“Thass gotta be worth some serious money,” he exclaimed. “Where’d you…?” Palmer shook his head. “Prolly nicked it, right? You steal stuff.”

“Doesn’t make that stuff any less mine,” said Len.

“But seriously,” Palmer asked, “it looks old. Where’d you geddit?”

“Family trinket,” replied Len. He twirled the coin around his thumb and index finger.

“Really?” said Palmer, frowning. “I…” he trailed off. Even stupendously drunk, Palmer knew better than to bring up _that_ can of worms. “I wouldn’t have thought,” he finished, eyes drooping.

“What can I say,” Len said, as Palmer promptly fell asleep sitting up. “I’m superstitious.”

 

 

 

The fact that no one could catch him for long did not seem to bother anyone in a town where the CCPD had their own special tally board for jailbreaks. A couple months in prison, a week tied to a chair in the Santini’s basement, an hour in police custody. It was all a game for him. Afterwards he’d waltz into Saints and Sinners, order fries and Poitín, and if you suddenly found the tip he left you gone after an hour you’d think it was your imagination.

 

 

 

Mick knew.

Giving his proclivity for punching before thinking it was easy to dismiss him as a brawny beefcake. But Len did not share the company of idiots. Despite Mick’s two favorite “A” words in the dictionary being arsenal and arson, he actually knew what he was doing.

Len had first thought Mick one of them—a Jinn, maybe, or a Cherufe. But Mick was man through and through. Maybe not one fit for functioning society, necessarily, but human.

“Y’think Hunter knows something?” Mick asked. They were tinkering in back, tools and screws laid bare across a dirty table. An old bulb hanging from a string winked measly light over them as they worked.

Len shrugged. He might. But he’d figured out a long time ago that Hunter was from much farther into the future than he said he was, and by that point Len guessed there was little room for surprise. Well, except maybe for disco.

“When you look at a man like Vandal Savage, I’m not so bad,” he replied. Len knew what it was like to live for too long; it did damage after a while. Being old got boring, and it got dangerous. The Hawks were old, too, only they didn’t always remember they were. Len considered them irritatingly fortunate.

Mick grunted in agreement. “Where’s Lisa?”

“Karaoke bar.”

“I never asked,” said Mick, screwing a bolt into place, “how come you don’t have a thing for singing?”

Len crossed his arms over his chest. “Who says I don’t?” Okay, so maybe he hummed in the shower, and he may or may not have made a little makeshift harp out of wire and poles. A guilty pleasure, you could say.

Mick grinned, baring his teeth. It was not difficult to see him as a Jinn, Len thought, or even a hellhound.

“Better things to do, right?”

“Right,” said Len, feeling the cold gun digging into his thigh, a little.

 

 

 

One night when he couldn’t sleep Len had given everyone on the team secret codenames. Granted they already had codenames, but his mind did strange things under the moon. Rip was the Doctor, because Len would be lying if he said he didn’t miss the old motherland sometimes. Sara was Zombie, Palmer was Tiny Parts, the Hawks were Peckish Lovers. Firestorm was Hothead, which he supposed Mick would take issue with, if he ever found out.

He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but it made Len uneasy. Nicknames were signs of affection. People named dogs and cats and chinchillas—mainly because they thought they were cute and amusing in a stupid kind of way.

Len gazed up at the splatter of stars overhead and tried not to think about the fact that he also had a codename.

 

 

 

Jax’s mouth hung open like a door with busted hinges. “Who taught you to do that?” he asked, gaping at Len’s flush.

“It’s in my blood kid,” said Len, winking at Mick from across the table. “Now pay up.”

Jax blinked. “You were playing us the whole time? Man,” he whistled, “your folks must have been some _serious_ gamblers.”

“Well my father was an evil spirit and my mother was a degenerate fairy,” Len declared, and watched Mick snort into his tequila. It had not escaped the team that his sense of humor was dry and often peculiar, so Jax just shrugged and begrudgingly shoved Len the remainder of his money.

 

 

 

He and Lisa sometimes left Central City at the swell of the full moon. Here on the city’s outskirts he did not have to worry about Stein giving him suspicious stares (like that time he’d caught Len talking with a rock outside the library) or explain why animals just seemed to follow him. Here he would take Lisa’s hand in his own and they would run, sing, dance, feeling freedom for a night before Lisa returned to her shady day job and he went back to changing the future of humanity.

Lisa would ask him why he bothered. Then she met the Ramon kid, and she started asking less. Len never verbalized an answer, but then again, he did not need to.

It was not that he cared for humanity so much as the stuff that made it interesting.

 

 

 

He finally told Sara, because Vandal Savage was a damned pain in his ass and “I’m just that good” was no longer cutting how he kept escaping Vandal’s death traps unscathed. Well, that and the teensy fact that Lisa Snart was not even supposed to _exist_ in 2166, let alone be shopping for shoes.

Lisa tossed a few pounds onto the counter (the only thing she and Len spent actual money on anymore were shoes, it was kind of a personal thing) and collected what looked like the most intense pair of wheelies Len had ever laid eyes on.

“Welcome to London, big brother,” she said, because Len was still getting over the pixie buzz cut and Sara appeared to be having a quiet mental breakdown beside him.

“She can’t—“Sara started, “how is…?” She glanced over at Len, a sinking feeling in her gut. “You don’t look surprised.”

“I can’t wait to see how you explain this one to her,” exclaimed Lisa, delighted. Her accent was British now, closer to what Len remembered. “It’s even better than time travel.” She pouted her lip at Sara, more amused than sympathetic. “Don’t be too hard on him, Sara honey.”

 So yeah, Sara might have had a few questions. Len tried to explain things practically, which was a spectacular fail because there was nothing practical about any of it. Sara, naturally, took a few minutes to process.

“A leprechaun,” she repeated flatly. “Like…a fairy?”

Len crossed his arms. “I prefer leprechaun. It sounds more manly.”

Sara shook her head. “But you don’t look—“she made a gesture that Len took to mean diminutive stature. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, but you don’t really scream ‘Lucky Charms’ here.”

“Is that what,” started Len, testy, but stopped his inner tirade against the cereal industry (it wasn’t really their fault anyway) and shook his head. “We adapt.”

Sara ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know about this, Snart,” she sighed.

“So Egyptian gods and immortals with magic glow-sticks no problem,” Len drawled, “but fairies leave you skeptical?”

“No, I believe you,” said Sara, pushing her hair over one shoulder. “But,” she narrowed her eyes, “Lisa…I’ve never heard of a girl leprechaun. My dad’s half Irish which—I know, doesn’t accredit to much—but still. I thought leprechauns worked on their own.”

“If you haven’t noticed by now, we like to break the rules,” said Len, lifting an eyebrow. Sara didn’t have anything to say to that.

“I always wondered about your sister’s fascination with gold,” she mused. “But it does explain the auras, and why you two get all googly-eyed around treasure.” A sudden thought came to her and she bit back a giggle. “Don’t tell me you used to wear tights and buckled shoes.”

 Len did not deign to reply. Mainly because it would have been embarrassing.

“Tell you what. How about I show you a trick,” he said instead, slipping a gold coin out of his pocket.

Sara was all eyes after that.

 

 

 

Like most things, coming to America had been his father’s fault.

Most intelligent beings, human or otherwise, knew not to fuck around. Especially when said object of fuckery was way out of their leagues and could easily get them a) killed, b) banished, or c) cursed for millennia. At least a handful of those supposed nine intelligences should have doled out a nice, healthy dollop of common sense.

But sadly, such intelligence was lost on Lewis Snart, who attempted to court the Morrigan on one of his decade-long benders. Anyone could have pointed out that you didn’t just decide to sleep with a _war goddess_ because you thought she digged you. So, because daddy dearest couldn’t keep it in his pants their entire family line was disowned, banished from the Emerald Isle on pain of Very Bad Things happening to them if they ever returned.

They had spent the past hundred or so years camping about the armpit of the United States, where prized cuisine consisted of Big Belly Burgers and high fructose corn syrup. They changed their names to Snart, lost the accents, and took comfort in knowing that the only fucking around any of them would be doing was with humans.

Meta-humans tended to complicated that a little, but in Len’s opinion it was a whole lot better than a scorned deity who could peck out your kidneys.

 

 

 

Mick asked him one time why he never spent his money.

“You know my father,” Len replied, crinkling his nose at the word, “had one of the largest reserves in Tara.” He casually picked at a spot on his shirt. “Do you know what he did with it?”

Mick jostled his shoulders in a shrug. He was wearing a stained tank top, and his burns stood shiny against the summer sun.

“He spent every coin of it on booze,” said Len. The crinkle in his nose became more pronounced. “Bye-bye trust fund.”

“What a dick,” Mick said.

They were alone, so Len took the opportunity to leap onto a chain-link fence. “So now,” he said, balancing on the post with one foot, “any money I get now I save it.”

“Stupid question,” prompted Mick, waving a hand. Len nodded for him to proceed, because Mick never asked stupid questions.

“Rainbow’s just some light refraction shit. How do you get the money there?”

Len hopped down from the fence, smiling. “You know how Hunter likes to call time travel our ‘quantum advantage?’ It’s just his fancy way of explaining a bunch of fancy science so people either pretend to get it or don’t bother asking in the first place.”

Mick scratched his peach fuzz with a fingernail and said, “You lost me, Snart.”

“Bottom line is, people tend to wax poetic when trying to explain what can’t be explained. A rainbow, really?”

Mick barked a laugh. “Clever,” he noted. “Can I have a clue?”

“The gold is always there,” Len said. He held up a finger and winked. “It’s just a question of when you can see it.”

 

 

 

“See this here,” Barry Allen told him, patting his stomach, “is science.” Smug little bastard. He should have known the Flash could out-drink him.

Len squinted. Damn, he was buzzed. “And I care because…?” This seemed to stump the Flash, so Len wiped his mouth and sighed. “Congratulations, you’re better than me at something. Have another drink.”

“I am impressed,” Barry said, taking Len up on his offer and downing a shot. He licked his lips and frowned at the litter of empty glasses in front of them. “Only it’s…” his eyes fell on Len. “Me, I can understand. You know, with the metabolism. But _you_ should be in the ground.”

Len scowled. “If you’re going to complain I am never drinking with you again, Barry.”

“Yeah, about that,” said Barry. “Why are we drinking together? We’re not exactly friends.”

“Well there’s a newsflash. Same bar same time, it happens,” said Len, leaning back and opening his hands.

“Really? ‘Cause I think something’s bothering you.”

Len’s lip curled up in a sneer. It was an expression that used to work on Barry in the old days, but lately it had been losing its potency. “Even if something was, do you really think I’d tell you, _Flash?”_

Pursing his lips together in a way that reminded Len of his mother, Barry answered, “Maybe, if you’d had enough to drink.”

This made Len chuckle, a bit. “Fine,” he said, “because you asked nicely. What the hell. I’m an Irish fairy who’s been kicking around for a few hundred years. I can talk with trees and rocks and teleport if I’m in the mood. Mick and I also joined a time-traveling crew to stop Vandal Savage from blowing up shit. Which would be fine, but people expect me to change the world and I don’t know if I’m ready or capable of that.”

There was a moment of heavy, heavy silence that consisted mostly of Barry blinking a lot and Len suddenly feeling loads better for getting that off his chest.

“Okay,” Barry said, inching Len’s tumbler away from him, “you’ve _definitely_ had enough to drink.”

Damn right he had. The only saving grace of the evening was that he’d make the kid pay for every cent of it.

 

 

 

“Say something in Irish,” Sara said to him one morning.

“No,” Len said.

“Come on,” she protested, a smile pulling up one side of her mouth. “Just a word or two. Tell me your name.”

Len closed his eyes and pinched the skin between them. “Will it get you to stop calling me ‘Lucky Charms’ in the field?” he asked. It was almost a question.

Sara considered. “Probably not,” she admitted.

“Then no.”

Sara propped an elbow up on the table. “Why?”

“Because,” Len looked at her pointedly, “there is nothing in it for me, and I haven’t had my coffee.”

“Yeah,” Sara agreed, “you’re right, there’s nothing in it for you.” She took a sip of whatever power-protein energy glop was in her mug and leaned back, eyeing Len as he put up a fresh pot of coffee.

“Did I change color?” Len asked, his back to her, and if he was a little sarcastic he had every right to be since it was a quarter to seven in the morning and the last thing he needed was people staring at him.

“I was just thinking about how you’ve stuck around,” Sara observed. “You’re not really getting anything from helping us, and it probably won’t inconvenience you if we all kill each other in a hundred years.”

Grabbing a mug that read KISS THE COALS (Mick’s) Len turned around, leaning his back against the counter. “You’re a smart girl, Lance,” he said. “Why don’t you figure it out?”

 Sara laughed at this. “I already have,” she said. Draining the last of the goop in her mug she added, “Like you said, I’m smart.”

“I don’t want to save the world,” Len told her, after a pause. And it was true. “But…”

But. He’d gotten Ogham tattoos on each hip when he was seventeen that read BROWNIES MAY SUCKETH IT / KENNING LINGUS that Lisa still teased him about. The meanings themselves were vulgar and not terribly important, but they reminded him that even before Central City, he was a Rogue.

But. Sara Lance had lines on her face where lines had no business being, Len knowing this because he found similar lines on his own face. Everything about how Sara moved, spoke, glanced about a room practically screamed “trauma victim.” It was too much like Lisa and that really shouldn’t bother him like it did. 

But. If the world ended Saints and Sinners would probably stop serving curly fries. As if he had enough potatoes, but hey. They never got old.

But. The trees told him stories of what went on in the wind when the sun went down.

But. Now he was seeing those lines on other people too. The Flash. Ramon and the pretty scientist. That underrated reporter West. Mick. Lisa. Sometimes he worried that one day he’d wake up and there would be no more people left, only their lines.

But. He did not want his sister to see a world that burned without a sun.

But. He had chosen a weapon that froze because he equated ice with apathy. It hid the fire in his chest; kidded himself for a while that everyone could destroy each other and it would be of no consequence to him or Lisa. Cold and Gold, standing tall over the earth in the days to come.

Sara tilted her head, waiting for an answer.

“But things would be so boring without you all running around to annoy me,” Len finished, pouring coffee into his KISS THE COALS mug.

And Sara smirked because she knew better.

“If Vandal Savage does manage to screw things up, and we can’t stop him with our weapons…or our super-humans, or a—a quantum advantage,” she started, “what will you do?”

Len pulled up a chair and sat down with his coffee. He held it in his sinewy hands for a moment, letting it cool, before bringing it to his lips. “That’s not going to happen,” he said.

“What makes you so sure?” asked Sara.

“Do you really have to ask, Lance?”

“Last I checked fairies can’t see into the future.” Sara had that look in her eyes, the one she got when she was looking _around_ Len rather than directly at him. He wondered what she was seeing. Not that it mattered.

But. Central City was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

But. He did not like being good. However he did like protecting the things that were his.

But. Sara had given him a codename too.

“This time, you have some pretty powerful luck on your side,” replied Len, with a smile. And that was enough for Sara.

 

End.

 


End file.
